


(29. Injured) / Hurting Angel, Raging Demon

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [29]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 29 - Injured“Crowley!” Aziraphale finally gets out. It is Crowley, he has to remind himself, despite all the overpowering sense of pure demon, the strange sensation of a dangerous enemy deep in his subconscious.“You're hurt.” Crowley says at almost the same moment, or growls, rather, his voice not quite human.His mind is on overdrive, his heart is racing. His senses are working at top speed, and as he speaks, he can smell the angel's blood on his tongue. He would've probably found him in seconds even without the trail of droplets, simply by smell alone.Aziraphale can't say another word before he's wrapped up in a hug, clutched tight to the demon's chest, where he can feel his heart pound against his ribcage.





	(29. Injured) / Hurting Angel, Raging Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is a bloody mess and I really don't like it. I know I can write feral/raging Crowley much better, and write better in general, and had much more planned with this prompt/idea.  
But today was really just a day to get it out and done with, because I was NOT going to lag behind on the last three fucking days of this challenge.  
So this is what you get, sorry. There's some good tidbits in it, at least.

The front of the bookshop is empty when Crowley kicks the door open with one foot, several bags of takeout in both hands.

It's empty and messy – but not the usual mess.

There's books scattered about, upturned, folded in ways no respectable bookseller or book collector or book-loving angel (or all three) would ever permit. One of the new plants the front room has gotten recently by way of demonic gift-giving lies broken on the floor, earth scattered around the corner.

Amidst it all is a small trail of blood.

It's about 3 seconds of absolute nothing before the takeout joins the earth and books on the floor.

Only one more until Crowley is up the stairs, following the red droplets covering the steps.

The drops lead him further, down the tiny hallway just behind the over-stuffed shelf of rare 19th Century treatises on porcelain, into the equally tiny flat that has been slowly collecting plants over the past months.

Whatever happened here, whoever did this, will pay. He's going to find Aziraphale, make sure he's safe, and then he's going to take the fucker who drew his blood and there will be no need for weapons, no, there will be nothing but fangs and claws to rip him apart. He can already feel them growing, can already feel his ears twitch to find sound and his eyes sharpen to notice whatever is waiting behind the door the blood drops lead to.

The door of the bathroom slams open just as Aziraphale has finished dabbing cleaning alcohol over the cuts on his arm. He jumps, turns around, comes face to face with a raging demon, and they're both lucky he doesn't rely on instincts as much as Crowley does right now, or he might just be met with a smiting force, barging in like that with all his demonic powers barrelling forward.

As it stands, they both just stand. And stare.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale finally gets out. It is Crowley, he has to remind himself, despite all the overpowering sense of pure demon, the strange sensation of a dangerous enemy deep in his subconscious.

“You're hurt.” Crowley says at almost the same moment, or growls, rather, his voice not quite human.

His mind is on overdrive, his heart is racing. His senses are working at top speed, and as he speaks, he can smell the angel's blood on his tongue. He would've probably found him in seconds even without the trail of droplets, simply by smell alone.

Aziraphale can't say another word before he's wrapped up in a hug, clutched tight to the demon's chest, where he can feel his heart pound against his ribcage.

“You're hurt.” Crowley repeats.

“Just a few cuts, dear. I've already cleaned them.”

“Let me see.”

Crowley grabs his arm, still clinging to him with the rest of his body, inspects the wounds that have already begun to close. A human blade, not much to an angel's skin.

Aziraphale's free arm, the one not held by Crowley in a grip that almost hurts and whitens his knuckles, pats comfortingly on his back.

“Some young lad wanted my cash register, you see. I told him there's not much in it, but he was very insistent, and then I suppose I was a bit too slow for him, because he pulled out this little flick-knife and we got into a bit of a struggle, but I got him out of the shop in the end-”

Aziraphale stills as he gets a close look at the grimace that is Crowley's face, the fletched teeth grown into fangs, the eyes fully yellow and piercing and focussed still on his arm, but somehow staring through it. He wrests his hand out of his grip, lays it against his cheek, tries to pull him back to earth.

“Crowley, my dear. There's no need. I'm fine.”

It's hard to get a demon out of a rage. It's even harder when said demon is, against all odds and behaviours of their kind, being protective.

Aziraphale's hands smoothen across Crowley's face, rub his cheeks, swipe to the back of his head to twist it down, make his eyes meet with calm, blue ones. A soft smile on his lips, a low voice.

“It's alright, dear. I'm fine, see? All healed up again.”

“I'm gonna kill him.” Crowley's voice is even lower, deeper than Aziraphale has ever known, a voice that can only be described as terrifying in ways he's never seen his demon before. “I'm gonna find him and take his knife and shred him with-”

“You're doing nothing of the sorts.” The calming hands turn to a leading push, settling him down on the armchair that has been part of the bathroom for a few weeks now, after Crowley had taken another one of his hourlong baths and Aziraphale had decided to join him with some light reading, and they'd discovered that being read stories in a foggy, overheated bathroom was one of life's little pleasures. “You're going to sit, take a deep breath, and collect yourself.”

Crowley tries. He really does. But his mind won't settle, his demonic power won't stop screeching in the back of his head, until he pulls Aziraphale down into his lap, buries his face in his shoulder and breathes in a few good ounces of angel smell. His angel. Safe angel. Right here, in his arms, with no more blood, carefully stroking through his hair.

“Do you feel better?” Aziraphale asks after another while, and gets only a short nod against his shoulder as Crowley's hands swipe along his arms, over the cuts that are nothing but little red lines anymore. “It really was nothing, my dear. You know I would've used a miracle if there'd been any real danger.”

“He had a knife!”

“A tiny one. He wouldn't even have gotten through my waistcoat and shirt with it. Just my luck that I had my sleeves rolled up.”

Crowley sighs as he finally unravels from wrapping around Aziraphale as much as possible and is met with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry for the scare, dearest. I should've cleared the front room, but I wanted to get the cuts cleaned – they're such a bother if they heal up with dirt in them, and the earth from the flowerpot- oh, your plant! We have to repot it-”

“Throw it out.” Crowley growls. “The whole thing. Takeout's probably covered it in sauce anyway.”

“Crowley!”

“What?!”  
“You dropped the food?”

They stare at each other again, Crowley as dumb-founded as Aziraphale had been when he'd stormed into the room, Aziraphale almost looking as angry as he had.

“I thought you were fucking stabbed, angel! Stabbed or cut up or- fuck knows what else! You think I give a flying fuck about the food then?!”

“Language, dear.”

“FUCKING LANGUAGE. You could've been discorporated for all I know!”

His eyes are burning again, and Aziraphale remembers that maybe he shouldn't rile up a demon who'd just been denied a bloody rampage.

He wonders, just for a second, what would happen if Crowley ever found him in actual distress. He's saved him from dangers before, from thugs and bandits and the occasional swashbuckler, but none of them had ever gotten close enough to warrant a rage. None of them had even drawn blood.

Aziraphale imagines what a demon would do if his most prized possession, his dearest partner got hurt. He has seen the horrors distraught humans have brought onto each other for their love. Considering Crowley was ready to disembowel someone with a flick knife for cutting Aziraphale is proof enough that it does not bear thinking about.

They're still sitting in quiet, Crowley's face against his shoulder again, his heartbeat slowly but surely returning to a normal rhythm, his mind calming just as slowly, still focussing on Aziraphale, trying to catalogue him with every sense. It's alright. He's still here. He's fine. It's fine. There's a fire burning in his chest and a rage growling in his stomach and the smell of blood still deep inside his nose, but it's fine.

No one has managed to harm Aziraphale in six thousand years. He's seen to that. Sure, sometimes he came in a bit late, had to fight off some humans that were sent straight down to hell after, but he always made it in the end. He's not ever needed a rampage, a true rage, and he's glad of that. He's seen what demons can do if they let loose of what little inhibition they have, he's been there to clean up the aftermath. He felt that fire inside him just then, the heat behind his eyes that asked for blood and pain and death. He doesn't want to think what it would be like to let it overtake him.

Would be stupid enough, if after all these years, after all of humankind's transgressions and mistakes, all it would've taken was some little thug with a flick knife to make him go feral.

It's easier to focus on other thing than the rage still seeping through his bones. On cleaning up the mess, re-miracling the food, picking up the plant for the compost, only to give in to Aziraphale's pleading look and setting it in a bowl of water, ready for repotting tomorrow. Keep his mind occupied until the anger is gone, the rage has subsided.

He's almost completely calm again when they settle down for dinner. Almost.

Aziraphale is rambling about something or other again, has seemingly forgotten all about it already as he gesticulates with the chopsticks. Crowley is watching him, sees the little red lines on his arm, swallows down a growl.

He's fine. He's calm. There's no need for rage or rampage, there never was. No matter what his instincts are constantly telling him.

There is far more need for cunning. For waiting until Aziraphale is asleep, and then finding the fucker, and making him sorry.

He is a demon after all. Feral or not.


End file.
